


Now It Burns Out Your Spine

by flyingkumquats



Category: Justified
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Depression, Flashbacks, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nietzsche references, Original Character Death(s), Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Slight Tim/Mark, Unreliable Narrator, War, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3743104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingkumquats/pseuds/flyingkumquats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But it’s enough for his spine to reform. Each vertebra slotting into place, turning his back into rigid metal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now It Burns Out Your Spine

4 am. Shit.

He’s lying in bed, his back rigid against a well-worn mattress, his eyes glued to a crack in the plaster ceiling.

Did he even sleep? He tries to remember, but the memory eludes him. For all he knows, he may have just blinked while time lapsed.

Hey. Maybe it was aliens.

(He’d hum The X-Files theme, if there were someone to appreciate the reference.)

***

He’s lying in bed, thinking of some of the kids in his class. Wondering if they wake to the sound of breaking glass, too. 

Somehow, he doubts it.

But it’s not like that’s the real truth. He’s not going to pinky swear to it on in the playground, or nothing. 

(And wouldn’t that be hilarious? Someone actually talking to ‘im in the playground long enough to pinky swear to something.)

The truth of the matter is, he’s been lying awake with his head buried beneath a flattened pillow for well on a couple of hours now. You see, noise ain’t all that helpful when you’re trying to sleep, and his dad? Well, let’s just say that when his dad took to drinking, he was loud. Louder than a stampede of elephants, and that was without the scratch of his old records to deal with. You try sleeping through that.

He’s used to the noise, now. That was a lesson he learnt long ago. You get used to the noise, and you learn to get quiet real quick. Train yourself to move around the house on tippy toes, while you’re holding your breath. 

He used to pretend it was a game. Something like the kids at school would play, likes cops and robbers or some shit. There was a slight difference, though. See, when you lose on the playground, you don’t end up with angry red cigarette burns, or black eyes, or even that broken wrist from last summer. If it was a game, then it was a damn shitty one.

He hears the sound of glass breaking, and his daddy cusses up a storm so loud that Tim bets the neighbours can hear. But it ain’t like it’s something they haven’t heard before.

Tim has to make up his mind. The way he sees it, he has two options: He can stay here and keep quite; hope that daddy doesn’t decide to come slamming through the door, yelling at him to clean up the mess. Or he could slip out of his bedroom window and make his way down to the weed-ridden garden path, until he reaches the relative safety of the little garden shed.

(Pa don’t go there, none. Not as far as Tim’s aware, at any rate.)

He thinks on it for a bit, but really, it ain’t no choice at all.

He lifts his sheets and slips out from beneath, tiptoeing across carpet that he supposes may have been blue, once. His bedroom window is old, the sort that creaks if you look at it the wrong way. No one's greased it in the few months they’ve been here, and hell if he knows when it was greased before that. He prepares for the inevitable squeak as his fits his fingers into the worn crevices and lifts.

He gets it up about two inches before the sound of screeching fills his ears. He waits a beat or two, then he’s pushing it the rest of the way and climbing out, his knees bracing for the jump to the ground. Tiny pebbles dig into sock-clad feet, but he don’t feel them for very long.

As soon as he’s in the shed, he’s moving towards the chair. It ain’t at all comfy. It don’t have a lick of cushioning to it; just dull yellow material covering sharp springs.

It weren’t much to look at, either. Some sort of pale washy yellow color, with a pink and green flower-vine-pattern-thing stitched in (and he’s sat himself chair enough to know instinctively that it sticks. Every time he gets up, he’s walking away with tiny pink threads clinging to his clothes, like he’s saving them from a rotting grave.) 

It _does_ have a little shelf, though. He can hides all his stolen library books there, so pa don’t find them. 

(“No son of his is going to be a book-reading fairy.” “That shit’s for sissies.” Tim had that particular lesson burned into the skin of his lower thigh.) 

The chair’s rough as all hell, but it ain’t in the house, and the broken shed window lets in enough light to read by. Basically, he makes do.

Really, he should probably throw the chair away. Wait until pa’s out on another bender, and kick it to curb. 

He can never make himself do it, though. 

It may be a piece of shit, but sometimes, if he pretends hard enough, he can trick himself into believing that it still smells like his momma. Hell. It don’t smell like cheap beer, foul sweat, or old blood. Maybe that’s the same thing.

***

Predictably, the sixth can explodes. Just like the last five, in fact. Bits of tin flying, hitting wood, rock, whatever it comes across, really.

“Shit.”

He takes his time saying it, stretching it so much that one word sound like it has 12 fucking syllables. “I thought you said that you’d never been shooting, Gutterson.”

“Not since I was about 6.” He neglects to mention why his shooting education ended there. Some things weren’t meant for the ears of a cute blonde, the sort with a crooked smile and a rusted pickup truck.

Sean returns to his side, his fingers ruffling Tim’s windswept hair. “Hey, the kid’s a natural.”

Tim pushes him off, using the movement to disguise the quick duck of his head. He knows a smile’s coming, and fuck. He knows that shit makes him look all of twelve, and he does not need that. Not now.

(He manages to gets his face under control, but it’s a near thing.)

Eventually, he turns and watches as Sean walks towards the pickup truck. 

When he calls out to Sean, his voice carries on the wind.  “What can I say? I don’t miss.”   Sean flips him off, and shit. He can’t even stop this grin from spreading. “I can give you lessons, you want.”

“Not from you, asshole.” Sean staggers backwards a little bit, before shaking his head. “Oh, man. This shit ain’t any fun if I can’t show off.”

But he’s grinning, and something inside Tim twists. He always did like Sean’s smile. All big and bold, like he don’t have to hide it from nothing.

The thought strikes him fast. And there was no recoil from the shooting but god damn if it’s not hitting him now. It hits him so hard that he can almost feel the whiplash. 

It’s a simple thought, nothing that’d trouble him under other circumstances. That is, circumstances where Sean was a girl.

See, thinking too much gets him in to trouble. It leads him to dangerous ideas, like walking across this sun burnt field, leaning in and stealing that smile for himself. Tasting how it feels pressed against his mouth. There’s a curl of something warm in his stomach.

Sean’s looking hard at him now, and that big grin of his softens into something uncertain. 

“Tim?”

Fuck, but he wants it.

(And he ain’t the wanting sort, usually. But Sean keeps fucking looking at him. The want takes him by the throat and fucking squeezes.)

Sean lifts his chin up, some, and it’s almost like a challenge.

***

The heat rolls in waves, swallowing him whole and spitting him right back up. Sweat clings to his skin, and the thought of going back to a stuffy, overcrowded classroom feels like the most refined of tortures. The grass is cool against the back of his arm as he lies beneath the bleachers, taking a drag of Sean’s cigarette. 

He closes his eyes and breathes in deep.

He’s waiting for Sean to take the smoke back like he always does, hands always quick like the nicotine is some sorta lifeline. But it ain’t happening, and he’s more than a little perturbed. He opens his eyes to see what’s happening.

Oh. Great.

Brad Collins. The six foot brick shithouse of a school quarterback. You know the sort. The type who thinks a well-timed burp is A Grade comedy; who throws “raging” keggers and runs outside to throw up in his ma’s compost heap about 2 hours in. 

He’s leaning up against the fence with a bunch of his football buddies, doing hell if Tim knows what. Whatever it is that neanderthals on the football team do, he supposes. Hey, maybe it’s trying to remember how to spell their own names.

There’s a disquiet in the track team, as far as Brad Collins is concerned. Tim can sort of see their point. Brad’s about as big as the two of them taped together, and he favours the opinion that any sport that doesn’t involve a red ball is meant for queers.

(And there’s a joke here, but the heat ain’t all that conducive to humour.)

Tim’s felt fear, though, and it ain’t a feeling he’s likely to apply to some dipshit who’ll end up running daddy’s business, a spare truck tire for a gut and a mop of hair as fake as the palm trees in his used car lot.

Tim sits up, stubbing the cigarette out in the dirt. He very deliberately does not roll his eyes. “You want, I can call him over. I don’t have a camera on me, but I’m sure he’ll wait while someone steals one from the photography lab.”

The only response he gets is an increased rigidity in the set of Sean’s shoulders. Jesus. He doesn’t see what the big deal is. Brad’ll call ‘em fags, his cronies will laugh and make hand job gestures. Then they’ll piss off and be dickheads elsewhere. It ain’t exactly a campaign of terror.

(And yeah, Tim can see why Sean might get riled if he were that way inclined. But no. He made that pretty fucking clear.)

The heat is slick on his skin, making him itch. He’s missing the fucking cigarette, if he’s being honest, and regrets having wasted it on… what, exactly? A tête-à-tête, where one of the tête s ain’t… têting? 

Fuck. He doesn’t have the patience for this shit. He stands up, tugging on Sean’s limp arm. “Let’s go.”

Sean turns back to look at him for all of five seconds, before reaching to grab his bag. 

Of course, by then it was too late. 

“Hey, Woods. You trying to gay the new kid or something?”

Sean freezes. When he says, “Fuck off, Harris,” it’s far too late.

Brad tilts his head to the side, spinning on his heel before sauntering towards them. His friends line up, following his lead. “What was that? I thought you said something, but that can’t be right. Queers should just take it, shouldn’t they?”

Tim sighs. Loudly. This shit ain’t even creative. Give him something to work with, for fuck’s sake.

(He did say he was running low on patience, right?)

“Jesus, all this talk of taking it. You angling to suck us off, or something?”

The smile on Brad’s face turns mean. Tim could almost laugh. 

_This_ , he can work with. Tim is so used to _this_ , he may as well have a fucking Doctorate. 

One of Brad’s friends, whose possible name was George, cracks his knuckles against the palm of his other hand.

“Jesus, kid. I was just warnin’ you.” Brad nods towards Sean, who is still sat upon the ground. “The kid’s a fag. Tries it on with anything that has a dick.”

“He hasn’t tried it on with you then? I can see how that would be a cause for concern.” Brad steps forwards, three brisk steps until he was all up in Tim’s face.

“You’re new here, k-“ Tim's on his haunches before Brad even starts speaking. It gives him ample time to twist his body and sink a fist into Brad’s gut.

It’s pretty quick after that. Tim ducks the wayward swing aimed at his head, crouching low and turning enough to swing a foot at Brad’s kneecap.

Brad clutches at his knee, shouts something indecipherable at the sky.

This is when Tim should stop.

But there’s clarity in this, something so opaque to him that’s it’s almost blissful. He’d been out of sorts all day, the heat making him off-kilter. But this is sheer instinct. This makes sense. 

Dodge, and attack. 

Control the state of play, and beat them into the fucking ground with it.

(His daddy ain’t raised a fist since Tim was big enough to fight back, and a mean asshole is a mean asshole no matter the blood relation.)

He resumes a fighting stance, taking a pop shot at the corner of Brad’s mouth. It’s enough to draw a bit of blood, and it’s like gas and an open flame. His fist stings, but stopping ain’t even entered into the god damned equation.

This was sitting in the corner of his bedroom, hiding behind a blanket like it would achieve something.

This is stepping in front of his mom when he was six years old, getting tossed to the side like a rag doll.

This is his fist, hitting again, and again, and again, until his arms are pinned behind his back, and punches are meeting his stomach.

He grins while they use him as a punching bag, and laughs as he’s thrown to the ground. Laughs until Sean is hovering over him, looking fucking terrified.

***

“You were laughing.”

His head’s still groggy from the pain killers, so it takes a while to register Sean’s words. When he does take notice, the only word he can spare is a garbled, “Huh?”

It’s funny. Call the kid a fag, and you get nothing. Yet all Tim has to do is say one word, and Sean is all up in his shit. “You were laughing while someone were beating the shit out of you.” He shakes his head, like somehow this was all Tim’s fault. “Jesus, Tim. It’s like you were looking to get hit.”

Something lurches in his gut, and he’s speaking before he can even think to shut up. “Well, my daddy weren’t around. Had to get my kicks somehow.”

The horror is writ large on Sean’s face. “Fuck. I -“ Sean breathes deep, and Tim takes a moment to contemplate just how deep his face is buried in this particular pile of shit. “Goddamn it, Tim. You say something like that, and I can’t even tell if it’s real or complete bullshit.”

He can’t help but smirk. If he’s already in it up to his neck, he may as use the snorkel. “Is that why you said no, then?”

Another brief shake of Sean’s head as he drops his gaze to cheap linoleum. “If that was some fucking display of…” he looks up then, gestures at the open window like he’s reaching for something.

“If that was you, trying to impress me… I didn’t ask you to do that, Tim.”

Sean averts his gaze when Tim tries to catch it, leaving Tim looking at a chip in the wall. He keeps staring till it’s nothing but a blur.

They don’t say anything for a long time. But, it being a banner 24 hours for Tim and new experiences, he’s the first to break the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

Sean smiles at him, the sort of smile that could break someone’s heart.

(Tim’s seen it before. And on that same face, no less.)

***

“Gutterson.”

“Sir.”

You know the stereotypical Drill Sergeant that you see in movies? All crew cuts, khaki green, and barked orders? Well, that’s Sergeant Travers down to a fucking T. 

It was like he was born into the world chewing on something nasty. A sneer tattooed on his face, straight back, and a glint in his eye like he’s just waiting to chew someone’s head and spit the leftovers down their gaping oesophagus.

(When Tim’s bored, he likes to imagine Travers’ teen years. He pictures a predilection for joints, and a giant fucking afro. A certain casual weed-driven charm that was possibly complemented by bellbottoms. But Travers Senior was a real hard ass. The “No son of mine is going to be a druggy layabout”-type deal.) 

(Poor Travers. His dreams of a pot empire didn’t stand a chance. He still thinks about it, though. Every now and again. Some grunt near shoots his foot off, and damn, but he could really smoke a joint right now.)

(Tim gets bored at night, all right?)

Anyways, the point is that when Travers calls you into his office and asks you to sit all quite, like you’re an actual human being? It means you’re on the precipice of something terrible, and you’re looking down.

“Gutterson, it is my duty to inform you that your father passed away during the night.”

The world doesn’t stop spinning. His heart is still beating, and he still has all of his limbs. But he ceases to feel it.

There is no response. None that he can find. It’s not so much that the walls are closing in. 

It’s just... h e’ll have to get back to you on that. 

The moment drags like it’s being pulled across hot coals, but its tongue is burnt to a crisp so it can’t even scream.

Travers averts his gaze. “I’ve arranged for you to take a week’s R and R. The CO has been informed. You’ll be driven to the bus station at 0700 hours.”

Tim nods, more for something to do than to indicate any comprehension.

“That will be all, Gutterson.”

“Yes, sir.”

Travers’ words shut the conversation down, and he turns towards the door. As his hand closes around the doorknob, Travers’ booming voice rattles behind him. “I’m sorry for your loss, cadet.”

He opens the door and steps out into the dimly lit hallway.  It feels like the door's shadow is swallowing him whole.

***

 He walks. Walks, and walks, letting his feet control his trajectory. He doesn’t stop until his hands are curving around the barrel of a rifle, the metal cool against his skin.

The target is meaningless. He just shoots on autopilot until he’s out of rounds. His arm is all cybernetics and metal, wires sparking while the rifle extension takes the target down.

 He only blinks when the rifle’s out of bullets, and it’s like punching a plane of glass. Fuck. How did he even get here? 

The grass is long, it brushes cold across his bare ankles. He wonders if it’s supposed to be sadness that he’s feeling right now. Sadness, or maybe relief? 

He stares at the empty rifle in his hands. If someone were to ask him how he felt, right at this minute? The only thing that he would say in response is regret.

***

He drinks in the sort of bar that he’s at least 2 years too young for; the sort of bar that knows this, but ain’t likely to give a shit either.

Sure, his impetus for joining the army has fucked off and died, like the worthless piece of shit he is.

Was.

Does that mean he should leave? 

He could. Make some sort of life, something that ain’t guns and blood and violence.

The thought is terrifying in a way that he doesn’t want to dwell on.

Hell. It’s not like can do much else, anyway. School ain’t for him, and he’s not exactly a people person.

Not that he can’t imagine it, though. A white picket fence, him sat on a swinging bench while his boy rests his head on Tim’s lap. Him carding his fingers through brown curls, smiling in the sort of way that you see straight couples do on tv. 

It’s an idle thought; one he discards as soon as it makes his way into his brain. It might be nice, but it’s a fucking fiction. That sort of shit ain’t meant for the likes of him.  He’s an eye for a target and a trigger finger that never stops itching. Shooting is about all he’s good for. And if he ever has trouble pulling, hell. All he needs to do is imagine his daddy’s face.

***

They tell him to make up stories. Create a fictional rapport between him and the mark, stave off any attempt for the mind to wander.

Like this kid. Elham Ali Karzai. Tim’s been sitting on this guy’s profile for three weeks, now. Pouring over the case files, getting to know him like the back of his own hand. 

Tim can imagine the story now. 

The photos of his apartment indicate a liking for books, so they bond over that. Meet for a coffee in Kabul, discuss fantasy novels or some shit. No need to get elaborate; keep it simple, stupid.

But there’s something off this time. He can’t quite put words to it. And it may just be that Elham’s pretty to look at, but Tim’s long grown immune to the lure of pretty eyes and a crooked smile.

It’s more like the story is starting to take a life of its own.

***

Freddie and him, they knock on the door of the house adjacent to Elham’s. Shake hands with the men, speak to them in second hand Pashto over several cups of tea.

The Afghanis, well, they're used to it by now. Used to white faces talking to them in some slapdash version of their own language, listening as these faces couch around the fact that they’re here to kill. There’s a sadness about it all, how they’re so fucking complacent about the imminent prospect of death.

(He don’t like to think on that shit too much. It’s shit like that makes him wonder if it’s not him who’s the bad guy.)

***

Turns out Elham’s a restless sleeper. He moves in fits, sheets moving as he kicks and rolls. 

Tim could pull off the shot now, but there’s risk involved when you’re dealing with a sleeping man. He could move at the last minute, wake at the sound of shattering glass, and then the entire mission’d’d be fucked.

They'd have to move Elham to another location.

(The mark. He needs to refer to him as “the mark.”) 

And Tim? He would have failed.

That ain’t gonna happen.

He takes a moment to think on his research. It’s approaching 0500 hours, and Tim knows that the mark is liable to wake at about 0630. All he has to do is wait.

***

0525.

_He wonders if Elham would appreciate_ The Silmarillon _. Tim imagines them, sitting in some bohemian café in Kabul. Tim would order a coffee, but it turns cold when Elham mentions his frustration with Tolkien’s long-winded way of getting to the point. Tim couldn’t let that rest, oh no. His words drip with sarcasm, because he ain’t letting on that he gives a toss, but after 5 or 10 minutes, all Elham has to do to cut through Tim’s bullshit is shake his head, a wry smile on his face._

***

0542.

_Did_ The X Files _ever air in Afghanistan?_

***

0544.

_The Cigarette Smoking Man was always Tim’s favourite. Well, not favourite, but he always found him to be the most fascinating character. (Elham would laugh at this. Yeah. Because you haven’t had your fill of men living in the shadows.)_

***

0602.

_If Elham hasn’t read Pratchett, then that’s it. Friendship over._

***

0603.

_Of course he’s read Pratchett. What is he, a Philistine? Not with that bookshelf, he’s not._

***

0604.

This needs to stop.

***

0613.

_Elham runs his hand through his hair, fine black strands stark against pale brown skin. Tim would wonder what the hell was going on. Elham only did that when he was nervous, and Jesus. Butler wasn’t anything to get twitchy about. Unless he didn’t like her work, of course. That would suck._

_But Elham smiles at Tim’s questioning look, white teeth blatant, even when he ducks his head. Tim takes a sip of cold coffee and winces at the taste._

_“I like you, Tim.”_

_“No shit. I’m delightful.”_

_Elham laughs. The sound warms him, and he ain’t even sure why._

***

 0620.

The sun started rising about 0530, but it’s done fuck all to light up the place until now. His lying form was still masked in shadow, but the gold light  creeps across the lower rooftops and dusty roads.

He finds himself more alert. The wanderings of a mind lost to the silence of pre-dawn hours don’t seem to be able to withstand the jagged edges of the oncoming light.

***

0630.

~~Elham~~.  ~~The Mark~~. Elham jerks to the left, his arm reaching out in one swift, unconscious movement. He rises, runs a hand through his hair, and rolls to the other side of the bed.

His vest rises as he stands and stretches, revealing a flat plain of toned stomach as the folds of beige sheets pool around his ankles.

He walks across the room and stands in front of the window. The room slowly fills with golden light, as he stands,He’s one long shadow, his edges illuminates by the rising sun.

“Tim.”

His finger readies itself on the trigger. He tilts the rifle to the right to account for the wind resistance.

The rising sun casts Elham’s body in shadow, as he stands in the middle of crosshairs.

***

0631.

A nudge to his shoulder, a whisper of, “Tim. Take the fucking shot.”

***

2217.

_He and Elham grab a coffee. There’s that nervous grin again, and this time Elham is reaching across the table, resting his hand on top of Tim’s. It looks small, almost dwarfed in size by the hand beneath. Elham runs his thumb back and forth across Tim’s skin, and this time Tim is the one ducking his head._

In his bed, Tim wakes up. His breathing is shallow, harsh. It echoes loudly in his ears.

***

War.

War is.

Fuck.

You could ask him that question one hundred fucking times, and he doubts that he’d use the same answer twice.

There are times when war is sitting on a roof for three fucking days, blisters forming on the back of his exposed hands as the sun burns.

Other times, war is a cigarette to calm the nerves, a tiny orange light glimmering in the dark as the smoke burns to its end. Then there’s a sudden scream tearing through the silence, and you don’t know if it’s someone’s living or sleeping nightmare.

Then there’s those times when war is sitting in a common room, kicking someone’s ass on X Box, because fuck if he’s going to pull out a fantasy novel around this lot.

(And he always wins. He won’t let anyone tell you any different.)

Of course, there are those moments when war is your hand pressed against a brick wall while the other is down some guy’s pants. You’re tugging him off, while he’s leaning back against the wall and doing the same to you. Only this kid, Mark, is all clumsy hands, so he’s making a mash of it.

(It ain’t queer. Fuck, if Mark had known that Tim was that way inclined, he’d have sought his comfort elsewhere.)

Or there’s now. Now being a pointless reconnaissance mission in a village outside of Kunduz. There are dirt roads, a few run down houses. It’s dead as shit, basically. When the highlight of the day is a stray dog, its reddy-brown hair matted and its eyes glued to the tumbleweed that he chases across the street, then it’s a futile fucking day.

At this point, Tim wishes he was the one chasing the tumbleweed.

The team is small. Himself, Freddy, and a few grunts on a bullshit detail because of some minor infraction. There’s no threat here. No, this is crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s. In other words: complete bullshit, and the only reason he’s here is because they need someone of experience on the squad to justify the recon’s existence. 

Oh, and he didn’t have any actual work to do. 

Apparently.

Sometimes, war is bullshit.

There’s a feeling in the group. It’s the loosening of shoulders, a grin that’s a little wider and the sounds of rocks being kicked along the ground. As team leader, he could pull rank. And while the thought is tempting, it’s not worth the effort. 

He longs for the half empty pack of cigarettes that he has stashed in the bottom of his kit. Nicotine always takes the edge off, and shit, if that idea don’t pull at a thread that he buried long ago.

He sweeps his gaze to the side, his attention caught by the faintest trace of movement. It may have just been that dog for all he knows. But it’s enough for his spine to reform. Each vertebra slotting into place, turning his back into rigid metal. He stills; hears the sounds of heavy boots coming to a halt behind him. 

Did he even see it?

A shrill whistle, and then Freddy’s fucking screaming because they’ve got his fucking leg, and there’s blood cutting an arc through the humid air as he falls to the ground.

Five seconds ago, there was nothing but yellow sand at his feet. Now it’s drowning in red, and he’s screaming for everyone to duck for cover. 

It’s too fucking late.

When it first hits, he feels nothing at all. It’s like he freezes, but then it starts to burn and he’s longing for that moment of pure ice to return.

Hot metal is tearing through skin and flesh and muscle, and fuck, what if it copped a taste of organ? The pain is… well, what do you think? He ain’t a man of poetry. It’s fucking killing him. It’s every punch to the face or skinned knee, all in one fell swoop.

That’s when he starts yelling, but things are starting to turn black. 

He’s not sure if the sound of screaming is just inside his own head.

***

He wakes up, and he’s lost.

There’s a shit load of white, and there ain’t nowhere in Afghanistan that’s so fucking white. He tries to think, but can’t remember shit.

***

The next time’s better, which makes it so much worse. The fog is gone, but that leaves him with this burning pain in his lower back, and recollections of blood and noise.

He’s sat here, with an IV drip in his arm and gauze wrapped around his middle, and he feels it. He don’t know what ‘it’ is, but it squeezes like a clenching fist around his chest, and suddenly he can’t fucking breathe. And his hands; he can’t even control them no more. He tries to grab on to something, but they can’t latch on. 

The shaking just won’t stop.

He’s sat here, in this white, empty room, and he’s never felt so fucking terrified.

***

When he hears another voice, he chokes.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

(No fucking shit.)

“Specialist Gutterson?”

He opens his eyes. “Yeah, doc?”

She’s tall. He has to move his head back just to see her face, and if that don’t make his world tilt on its axis. She looks tired. He can see dark rings behind the rims of her little rectangle glasses, and there’s a little too much relief in sit of her mouth to be at all comforting.

Shit. How long was he out for? He asks as much, and she shakes her head. It’s a little twitch of a thing, and a loose strand of black hair falls across her face, jostled by the movement.

“How are you feeling, Specialist?”

He wants to be a dick. There’s a glib reply burning beneath his tongue, and he wants to throw it at her like a grenade.

“I’m okay.”  When he speaks, his voice is so fucking small. 

She looks at him like he’s a thing to be pitied. (Because yeah. That’s gonna make him feel so much better.) “Why don’t you get some more rest, and we’ll talk about this when you wake up?"

Here’s that fear again. He takes a deep breath, trying to will it down.

“I. I can’t. Not again.”

He tries to keep calm. His failure is writ on the tremor of his voice.

***

A wound that will never fully heal, but “you’re lucky. It could have been so much worse.”

(If he has to hear that one more fucking time, he’ll eat a fucking rusty spork and let the tetanus infect him from the inside out.)

He’s at the airport, and walking is still a bit of bitch, but no, he doesn’t need any help, fuck you very much.

As soon as he could stay awake long enough to stomach a meal, they came for him. There were no apologies, no remorse. If you heard the,, you wouldn’t even think that the assholes had sent Tim and his men out there in the first place.

The appointed spokesman barely looks at him, tells him that he only has one month left his bit, kid, and that there’s no point keeping him here.

(They’re blunt, and Dr. Michaels frowns in the corner of the room, her brown eyes glaring daggers. It seems as though she wasn’t too happy about that particular decision.)

(He could relate. But he also knows better than to show it.)

***

He sits on a plane, and wonders if Freddy made it out alive.

***

It’s the peace that gets you. You look over your shoulder, and what do you see? A whole fuck tonne of nothing, staring right back. 

Jumping at the smallest unexpected noise used to be a way of life. You do that now, and it ain’t saving a life. It’s fucking paranoia.

Alcohol helps, some. Drink enough bourbon, and you don’t react to nothing. And really, that’s all he deserves at this point.

The barmaid knows him, now. She nods as he sits down, and he holds up two fingers. 

Soon enough, two fingers of bourbon slide across the wood, one after the other. He downs them in quick succession, chasing the fire. If they don’t burn on the way down, then what’s the fucking point?

He can’t exactly sit around at the bar without a drink in his hand, either, so he orders a single bourbon straight afterwards.

He keeps his head down, elbows sticking against tacky wood as he swirls the glass in his hand. Brown liquid  rolls against the sides. He tries to focus on keeping it in the glass.

When he was on the job, his single-mindedness was intimidating. There was no room for bullshit; he’d have a task, and he’d slave over it until it was done. But he needs a goal, something worthy of the laser-eye attention, and perhaps more importantly, he needs fucking quiet. That ain’t so easy, back in the real world. 

Take a room like this, for example. He tries to focus on the bourbon in his glass, but it’s not enough. His thoughts scatter from one thing to the next; the clatter of glasses, a drunken guffaw that's on the wrong side of obnoxious. The movement of a red and white checked hand towel in the corner of his eye, and a dude sitting down the end of the bar, picking at his fingernails. 

The bourbon will help, soon enough. 

But it’s only been three drinks, and…

***

…he’s not drunk. He’s a fucking ranger, for fuck’s sake. It’ll take more than… well, he’s lost count at this point, and what was he thinking about again? He giggles, and then his eyes scrunch up as he tries to track his previous train of thought.

Oh, yeah. He’s definitely not drunk. But the world’s soft; it’s not the sharp corners of a few hours before. Things have settled somewhat, and if he smiles at the cute guy sitting by himself at the end of the bar, asks Mandy to send a drink his way, then he’s just being friendly.

He’s not drunk, but it may be time to call it quits nonetheless. 

The act of standing sounds a lot easier in his head. He presses his left hand against the bar, and it sticks. Eventually, he decides to leans into it. So what if he needs that extra bit of support?

(If he notices that cute guy cast a dark look in his general direction, he pays it no mind.)

Finding his money proves to be another tricky endeavour. He pats down his legs, runs hands across the pockets of his flannel shirt.

(It’s eventually turns up in the back pocket of his jeans. If asked, he’ll say that he found it straight away.)

He could attempt to count the exact amount, but fuck it. He pulls out the biggest note that he has, and gestures for Mandy.  She has this big, megawatt smile, is all red curls and a hint of curves beneath a singlet… top… thing. Her eyes light up when she sees the money in his hand, so he’s guessing that it’s a little too much.

Eh.

She takes the money, says, “have a good night, darling.” The corner of his mouth twists upwards in response, and he nods as he turns from the bar.

***

The wind ain’t all that strong when he steps outside (it’s never that strong in Kentucky), but he does stagger a bit. Something that’s definitely the wind’s fault. He moves, one foot flat on the ground, and then the other. 1, 2, 3, 4. 

(1, 2… 3, 4.)

He thinks that he can hear shouting, but he moves on.  After all, it ain’t the first time he’s heard something that ain’t there.

But now it’s there again, and that can’t be in his head, can it? It’s too loud, too… real. He don’t turn around, but still slurs the words “Is there a problem, here?” to indicate that he’s standing at attention. 

“You a fucking queer, man?” And hey, it’s the cute guy from before. Although, really, he ain’t so cute up close. There’s too much… face involved. He doesn't know what he was thinking.

(It was the curls, most likely. They are a bit of a weakness.)

His only response is the upturn of the corners of his mouth. The grin is a dash of feral, a hint of manic, and a whole lot of who needs a fucking rifle, anyway? 

Drinking’s all well and good, but this is so much better.

This guy, he’s not bulky. Tim assesses the threat. The arms are more wire than muscle, but he’s fucking tall. Tim’d guess that there was about 6 foot of asshole beneath that mop of bleached hair. Tim looks up, and his grin widens. “You angling for a blow job, or something?”

The dude spits to the side. “Why? You asking?”

“Oh, you know. Getting called a faggot just gives me the biggest boner.” He leers, even bats his eyelids a little bit, and oh, but he can taste it now. The bitter tang of acid and the rusty sound of the long dormant joints in his spine, clicking into place. Mr. Raging Asshole stalks over him, all legs and piss and vinegar, and who needs fucking alcohol when you have the taste of violence painting the insides of your mouth?

“Fucking fag.” He launches, all fist first like he ain’t had the first bit of training. It’s a slow and lumbering attempt, and Tim could move if he wanted.  He doesn’t, though. 

(He never strikes first. That would make him the bad guy.)

(He’s not the bad guy.)

He waits, and when the scattered punch clips his left shoulder, he rolls with it. Turns his natural response into something that he can work with, braces the slight stumble back with his left foot and twists his body around, bringing his knee up at the same time.

He’s not drunk now.  No fucking way.

His knee hits home plate beneath an outstretched arm, colliding with the fucker’s chest. There’s not a lot of force in it; Tim can tell that his knee has left the guy winded, but not enough to do any lasting damage.

There’s that grin again. He can feel it, pulling at his cheek muscles.

The guy ain’t gonna be a one punch wonder. He’s drunk, and more than enough of an entitled shit to want another taste.

He waits the guy out, lets him get steady. He gets popped in the nose, quick as you like, and he doesn’t close his mouth when the blood starts to trickle down his face. It tastes like metal, like falling on the ground after a round of mortars and landing face first on to your gun. 

His teeth must be painted red by now, so he opens his mouth wide and laughs. Doesn’t even get to see the fucker’s jaw slacken with shock before he’s throwing the next punch.

 ***

“At your feet, soldier.”

The ground’s all wrong, is the first thing he notices. It’s too solid beneath his back, and he must be fucked, but he can’t even remember what mission this was, or why they were in a city in the first place. But Freddie’s there, and he’s a strong arm around Tim’s shoulders, which is kind of what he needs right now.

…

Fuck. That’s not right, either.

(Must have a head injury, or something. He hopes it ain’t serious. Nothing that his squad commander will notice when they get back to base, at any rate.)

He blinks a few times, sees Freddie smiling at him.

***

His bed sheet is sticking to his skin. He pulls until it rips away, flakes of blood sticking to off white cotton. His first thought is a six foot blonde dude, but his head is aching, and the need to piss takes precedence over thinking right now.

He pulls the sheet the whole way off and pushes himself up, stilling as his bedroom spins around him. Then it’s one foot gingerly placed in front of the other, and there’s an ache in his left leg that twinges when he steps on it.

***

He's nursing a bag of frozen peas against his nose and a cup of coffee in his hand when realization hits  him like a 5”9 ginger man lying on his faded green leather couch.

Said ginger man sits up, runs a hand through his hair. “Your couch has a loose spring.”

“Well, shit. If I had known about the company, I‘d have put the good couch out.” He closes his eyes, because it really is too early for lights. And for talking.

“How’s your head?” Freddie’s looking at him, his grin tens shades of shit-eating. Asshole.

“It’s marvellous, darling.” He winces as he pulls the peas away, dumps them in the sink before making his way over to the spare arm chair. “What were you doing there, anyway?”

“My spotter senses were tingling.” Freddie sits up, scratches at his freckled nose as he yawns.

Tim smirks as he responds. “Fuck off. Your spotter senses couldn’t catch the fucking clap in a brothel.”

“In my defence, a bleeding man lying in a pile of trash ain’t that hard to miss.” Freddie gestures at the bruises on Tim’s face. “And you’re one to talk about fucking skills. I thought all rangers received training in hand to hand combat.” And there’s that megawatt smile on his face, bright enough to guide a ship home.

“Hey, I got at least 4 decent punches in there. I bet he looks ten times worse than this.” Freddie shakes his head.

“Shit. The ambulance must have been and gone by the time I found your sorry ass.” Freddie laughs. It’s a deep-throated boom of a sound, so loud that Tim’s head instantly throbs in response.

The laughter fades, eventually. And there's nothing looking to replace it, either. What the hell do you say? 

I’m glad you made it?

Thank God you’re alive?

Tim attempts to navigate that sweet spot between a too honest rock and a shoot the shit hard place, but he’s far too hungover for that shit. He stands up, offering Freddie a coffee instead.

Freddie stands too. “Nah, I’m good. I should head out, anyway. Let you alone to wallow in your misery.”

“You wanna lift home, or something?”

Freddie’s response is little more than a look; one that makes Tim feel as though he’s still a few pieces short of the complete puzzle. “I’ll be fine, thanks. Like you can drive in the state you’re in, anyway.”

Tim ignores the feeling of being adrift, asks for Freddie’s number so that they can catch up at a time that’s “less am-y.”

Freddie laughs. “Well, I’m a little short on the phone front.”

“Oh.”

Freddie smiles in a sad, little way, and there’s that feeling again. 

Quite frankly, that feeling can go and fuck itself.

Freddie nods at him, and turns towards the front door. “I’ll see you around, Tim.”

The door’s open before Tim responds. 

“Yeah. You too.”

***

Tim found that puzzle piece. It took a few hours, but he got there in the end. 

The piece was small. Really, it’s no wonder he missed it. It was threadbare fingerless mittens that may have been red once. It was a hole-ridden beanie, and a few too many layers of clothing, all of them caked in grime. It was a strong smell, and the rattle of a shopping cart from the night before.

***

Tim avoids the balcony. He’s come to notice things, living in a complex like this. Things like wrinkles, reading glasses, and walking frames. These signs of age to which he'd never paid consideration.

(There ain't much of a need for a retirement plan in a war zone.)

They’re all so twitchy, these people. The slightest thing sets them off. It’s almost like they’re desperate for something to happen; looking for action, when they would be ill-prepared if it were to come their way.

They peek out from behind lacy curtains; frown at anyone unlucky enough to be caught standing in the shadows, as if the poor asshole was the devil himself.

So while the need for a cigarette is high, it ain’t worth subjecting himself to his neighbour’s nosing ways.

And yeah, there was always bourbon. 

But Art has already talked his way around this; a few times now, in fact. This pressing concern about his so-called alcoholism. Tim didn't feel the need to add fuel to that particular flame by turning up to work with the smell of bourbon on his breath.

He can’t smoke. He can’t drink.

And most importantly, it’s 4 am and he can’t fucking sleep.

He’d get it, if it was the memories that were keeping him up. If it were nightmares about the explosions, or flashbacks to all of the of death. That shit would make sense. 

He can deal with that. Hell, at least it was something tangible. 

It’s better than nothing. 

A gaping nothing, to be precise. One so vast, it feels like it could swallow him whole.

It reminds him of Freddie, funnily enough. 

Freddie always had this huge boner for Nietzsche. You’d hear him around camp, gesturing with his big hands, preaching _Thus Spoke Zarathustra_ like it was the fucking Bible. (He’d always quote Nietzsche while they were on recon missions together, too. Mostly because he knew how much it’d irritate Tim.)

He’s hesitant to admit it, even to himself. But if he was ever asked to explain these bouts of insomnia, he’d have to quote Nietzsche, too.

_If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you._

… God damn it.

***

It’s 5 am, and he still can’t sleep.

Fuck the neighbours. He needs a goddamn cigarette.

**Author's Note:**

> After letting this mutate and gestate for an entire season, posting it the day before the finale just seemed apt. Because I am going to miss Tim Gutterson, and what better way to send him off then to saddle him with a shit load of angst?
> 
> The title is taken from "War Machine" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
> 
> Any mistakes are my own. I'd appreciate any feedback, if you spot anything.
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


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